Thursday, May 21, 2009

JOB APPLICATION *please pass along*

"...the goal of production no longer lies in any specific market, any specific set of consumers or social and individual needs, but rather is transformed into that element...that has no content or territory and indeed no use-value as such, namely money."

--Frederic Jameson

"i am going to pay someone a lot of money
to turn around and go home"

--Tao Lin

This is an open application for the position of Professional Pac Man Player.

My "resume" is that I will play Pac Man in front of you,
on the Free Pac Man website, on your MacBook,
and you will see that I have a natural talent.

I have maintained four extra lives at one time (April 29th, 2009).

I have consistently eaten all four ghosts
before they can even blink.

The numbers that I have generated
have exceeded the quintuple digits.

This can be a new form of customer service
for your corporation or private business.
Let me show your clientele.

I will pace the same maze
so many timesthat people who work
for companies that work for you
will swell with all the purpose
of someone who makes food or houses.

I will eat so many of the ghosts who chase me
that your American investors
will stop being terrified
of peoples that they don't understand.

I will consume so many white dots
in such gorgeous succession
that I will make the adolescents
at your fast food restaurant feel great
about eating the rainforests.

Most of all, I will try.
I believe in giving extra effort
all the time, every day,
and in having fun working hard,
in reaching for every fruit,
no matter its value.

Saturday, May 9, 2009

The World's First Kiss Was the Ocean Kissing a Rock

It's been a little too long since I've straight-up posted a poem, hasn't it? In case you agree, here's a poem I've been picking at for a couple of weeks now. I'm working on setting it to music, so I'll tell you when that's done and on BadMovieCommercialSpace.

When I imagine kissing somebody for the first time,
I always imagine us in a kitchen--

and of course the window is open
and the sun is just about to go down
and some sweet bread that needs a lot of time
just went into the oven,

even though, in my life,
most kisses in kitchens
occur at house parties,
and are bourbon stale
and overdone.

I was daydreaming on the 66 bus,
groceries hammocking my feet, when
an old man with small glasses and no neck
told a girl with thick sunglasses across the aisle
that she looked very good today,
and that he hoped she had a good day.
He was smiling like someone
who has never heard of pornography.

By the trees at Brighton and Cambridge,
the pigeons were chasing each other,
and I watched one of them fly away, as steady
as the first bubble from the bottom of a pot.

Wednesday, May 6, 2009

Dreams, 5/6/09

I dreamed my sister and I were on a ship back from Italy, and the plane landed behind a gigantic mall, and only the two of us and three of our friends went into the mall.

We went to the food court and ordered sweet potato fries, and the woman at the counter said that they'd be out in three to four hours, so we walked around.

All the shops were closed, and no one had anything to say, which was strange because one of the friends was Carlos, who always seems to have something to say about something. Then we walked back to the food court and finally got our sweet potato fries.

Then I dreamed that I was in a diner with the Gringo Choir and a few other Emerson people, including our rookie slammer Peter. They had something called Psycho Fries, which Max asked about, but the waiter said that they weren't very good and kind of tasted like shrimp. I ordered the sweet potato fries.

Then I dreamed that my neighbors and I got together on a beautiful Sunday afternoon, and we were going to race our cats.

One of my neighbors in this dream looked a little like Bea Arthur, and she kept making comments about my roommate's cat Butch being fat, and not in a joking way. She kept giving me a really dirty look. We ate lunch in her backyard, and after having asked me about how I was doing as a vegan, she dumped a pile of chicken wings right onto the table in front of me. Graciously, however, she also gave me a bowl of sweet potato fries.

The cat race ended late in the evening, on my front porch. Butch was in second or third place (Bea Arthur's cat got buried). The cats started brawling, and everyone else saw this as just the second leg of the race, but I really thought some cats were going to die. I tried to get between Butch and this bigger orange cat that was chasing him, and thankfully the orange cat got distracted.

Butch then plopped down under the porch and watched the other cats wreck each other. I watched too, dismayed.